


How to Date a Werewolf and Survive the Experience

by Calacious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Dating, Fluff, Humor, M/M, POV Derek occassionally, POV Stiles, Sex, genderswap in one prompt, various prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek have started dating, and, well, Stiles could really use a handbook. Seriously. Anyone have one handy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters of this work of fiction and am making zero profit of any kind through this.
> 
> Written for the 30 Day OTP Challenge (Gadhar introduced me to it), and for J.F.C., for the GGE Gift Exchange. 
> 
> I would love feedback to let me know if people are interested in reading this here. Don't want to post if there is no audience for this. 
> 
> There will be run-on sentences, fragments, and the chapters will not have consistent word counts. Please forgive me my errors. Thank you.

[30 Day OTP Challenge](http://30dayotpchallenge.deviantart.com/journal/30-Day-OTP-Challenge-LIST-325248585)

_Day 1: Holding Hands_

* * *

 

Stiles glanced sidelong at Derek in an effort to judge his reaction to what was unfolding in front of them, if he was even noticing what was happening, that is, and the why of it.

They were in the middle of a long line of people, waiting for their turn on the Ferris Wheel, which, well, for their second official date, the carnival was kind of a cool idea, even if it did come from his dad. Maybe Derek would even hold his hand, like the men three people ahead of them in the line were doing, in spite of the rude comments that the act was garnering from those closest to the couple.

Derek was frowning, which could mean any of about a million different things: someone's wearing too much cologne; there's imminent danger; he's bored; the corn-dog that he shared with Stiles is giving him a sour stomach...

There was also no help for Stiles in determining whether or not the wolf was aware of what was happening, almost directly in front of them, in the way that Derek was holding himself - tense, shoulders hunched like he was waiting to be attacked - or in the way that his eyes were narrowed,as though the sun was too bright, though it was dusk, and it was starting to get dark, or in the stern lines around his mouth, which were almost ever present. He looked like he always looked - stern, broody, serious, deadly.

The only thing that clued Stiles in on Derek, not only being aware of what was happening, and being upset about it (a very good sign, considering that they were dating now, and he'd kind of like to hold the wolf's hand, in public, every once in awhile, or maybe all the time), was the hand that groped, blindly for his own, and held on tightly. The slight, upward quirk of the corner of his mouth was the only response that Derek gave Stiles when he beamed at the other man, squeezing his hand in return. Though the smile was much more reserved, and almost not there, it could have, in Stiles' mind, eclipsed the moon.


	2. How to Get Your Werewolf to Cuddle With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is sitting in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and Derek is all the way in Siberia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Cuddling Somewhere
> 
> Again, feedback gives me reason to post. Thanks.

One day, Stiles was going to write a book about this, and call it something like: _How to Handle Your Very Own Personal Werewolf_ , or _Got Werewolf?,_ or maybe just, _Dating Werewolves for Dummies._

In it, there would be an entire chapter devoted to how to get your manly wolf to cuddle with you, because, well, Stiles would like to cuddle every now and again. It would be titled something like: "When Your Wolf Won't Cuddle," or "A Step-by-Step Guide on How to Cuddle with Your Wolf," or something far less wordy. Something more to the point. Something that conveyed action, and ultimate success. Something...succinct.

It wasn't too much to ask, that Derek cuddle with him, and it wasn't a girly thing, or a human-only thing, or a strictly Stiles thing. It was an everybody likes to do it kind of thing, and a, people (and wolves) need physical contact when they're dating, kind of thing. And not the kind of physical contact of the lip-locking variety, or the greedy hand-groping variety, or the being shoved up against the wall, make-out kind of variety.

No, what Stiles was looking for was a simple, and, okay, maybe a little 'girly' sounding, cuddle session. Just sitting together, arms wrapped around shoulders, maybe a head resting on someone's chest, or in someone's lap. Just simple, straight up, cuddling, and not to keep someone warm, or as a prelude to making out, or something more. Just...cuddling.

First, though, Stiles had to figure out how to make that happen with his own wolf who was currently seated way on the other side of the couch, about as far away from him as he could possibly get without being in the other room. Or, well, on the other side of the planet. Heck, if Derek was really aiming for distance, there was always the moon.

Stiles sighed and stretched, draped an arm over the back of the couch, and Derek raised an eyebrow, and after a moment, turned his attention back to the TV movie that had been playing for the past hour. Stiles hadn't been watching it. He'd been too busy watching Derek, willing the wolf to inch over to _his_ side of the couch.

There was a bowl of popcorn sitting on the table, courtesy of his father who'd left for work just after the movie had started. Neither of them had made a move toward it. No doubt it was feeling neglected, rejected. Much as Stiles was currently feeling.

He sighed, this time a little more loudly, and stealthily inched over toward Derek's end of the couch. Or, maybe not so stealthily, because Derek moved too, in the opposite direction. If things continued on in this fashion, Derek's hip and the arm of the couch would become one, and, by the end of the night, he'd have to use a crowbar to separate them.

Stiles slumped on the couch cushion, and grabbed a handful of popcorn, stuffed it into his mouth, and tuned into what was happening on the TV. Someone was crying, and, well, the cryer was being cuddled.

Stiles frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, pointedly ignored Derek who shifted in his seat. He didn't even _want_ to know if the wolf had moved even further (though it was soon going to be impossible) away from him. And, no, he wasn't jealous of the openly weeping character on the TV set. Not at all.

_Free Reader Tip: Don't try to sneak up on your wolf. He'll be waiting for it, and will run in the opposite direction. Turns out, werewolves are_ _ **extremely**_ _skittish._

Stiles leaned forward, snagged another handful of popcorn and chewed it loudly. He rested a chin on his fist and rolled his eyes at the dramatic scene unfolding on the TV. Who'd picked this movie anyway? Probably his father. He snorted and shook his head.

He reached for the popcorn, and his hand accidentally brushed against Derek's, sending tingles from the tips of his fingers all the way through his shoulder. He shivered, and Derek pulled back, as though he'd been electrocuted, rather than pleasantly shocked.

Another loss on the, "How to Get Your Werewolf to Cuddle," front. A rather major loss from where Stiles was sitting, directly in front of the bowl of formerly neglected popcorn, but nowhere closer to Derek.

If he was at the North Pole, and Derek, the South, they'd be closer - at least on an emotionally relevant scale.

_Free Reader Tip #2: Beware, accidental touch may cause your werewolf to withdraw, and make cuddling darn near impossible._

Frustrated didn't even begin to cover how Stiles felt at the moment, and he was clueless as to what was wrong, because, before they were dating, Derek couldn't seem to keep his hands off of him, and now, he couldn't seem to put enough space between them. As surreptitiously as he could, Stiles sniffed his armpit. He didn't _smell_ off. Or at least he didn't _think_ he smelled off, maybe he smelled differently to Derek, though.

Sighing, Stiles tucked his legs underneath himself, rested his hand on his chin, and tried to pay attention to what was happening on the TV, rather than what _wasn't_ happening on the couch. He'd try to match Derek's cold indifference with an indifference of his own. Maybe that would work, or at least ease some of the hurt that had settled itself in the vicinity of his chest, close to his heart.

Reaching absentmindedly for more popcorn, frowning as the main character flung herself into the arms of another man, Stiles let out another sigh, louder than the rest. He envisioned flinging himself at Derek, and snorted, because he knew that Derek would arch an eyebrow in response and probably check him for brain damage, or maybe just not catch him, or drop him, or...

"What's wrong?" Derek's voice startled him and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned and blinked at Derek. " _What's wrong_?"

He threw up his hands, and accidentally knocked the bowl of popcorn on the floor. He'd have to clean that up before his dad got home. Not that his dad was overly fastidious or anything, but he did like to keep the mice out of their living room.

"Oh, I don't know, how about the fact that my _boyfriend_ is sitting all the way over in Siberia while I'm over here, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? Or, maybe the fact that we are clearly watching a terrible movie and aren't even commenting on the really bad acting, or, well, anything?"

_How about the fact that I've been trying to get you to cuddle with me, and you are thwarting my every move?_ remained unsaid, but definitely hung in the air like a black cloud over the both of them.

Derek looked like he'd been struck, and Stiles almost took pity on him. Almost. But the man had nearly folded himself into the couch, as though he was afraid to touch Stiles, or maybe the thought of touching Stiles disgusted him.

"Do I smell?" Stiles sniffed his armpit again, and Derek looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

" Are you planning on breaking up with me?" Stiles asked, voice a little shaky.

He ran a hand through his hair, and held his breath, because that had to be the answer, and he'd been stupidly trying to come up with ways to sneak over to Derek's side of the couch for some cuddle-time.

Derek frowned at him and shook his head, mouthed, _what,_ and seemed to struggle to find his voice, but he did.

"No, I...your dad..."

Stiles laughed, and pressed his fingers to his eyes before turning to look at Derek. "Don't tell me my dad threatened you?"

Derek shrugged, refused to meet Stiles' eyes. "He might've mentioned a shotgun, and that he was the Sheriff, and knew how to..."

"Get away with murder," Stiles finished, and he pushed into Derek's space, ignoring his attempt to scoot away. The man had nowhere else to scoot to, unless he wanted to sit on the floor.

"Something along those lines," Derek admitted, finally meeting Stiles' eyes, showing just how much he wanted to actually participate in the cuddling that Stiles wanted, maybe a little more.

"You big goof," Stiles said, hitting Derek's arm playfully, and eliciting a growl. "My dad's not going to shoot you for cuddling."

"Cuddling?" Derek said the word like he'd never even heard it before, and Stiles took pity on him, settled in beside him and wrapped an arm around him, rested his head on the wolf's chest.

"Yeah, cuddling, you know, where two people who like each other actually sit next to each other on the couch and..."

"Cuddle," Derek repeated, frowning.

The word sounded foreign the way he said it, and Stiles kind of liked it. Made him feel like he was one of the cool jocks, dating the foreign exchange student. Except, he had it better, he was dating Derek Hale, werewolf, former star basketball player. Yeah, he was moving up in the world, alright.

Stiles snuggled against Derek's chest, looked up at him through the fringe of his eyelashes, and smiled when Derek's shoulders relaxed, and the arm that he'd kept stiffly by his side came to rest on Stiles' back.

"Cuddle," he said with much more confidence. "Sure, we can...cuddle."

Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek's stomach, and turned to watch the rest of the movie that, apparently, neither of them had been watching. Derek relaxed and sunk back a little in his seat, tugging so that Stiles was a little more on his lap, and he could massage Stiles' scalp.

_Reader Tip #3: Just be straightforward with your wolf. They're not good with the art of subtlety, and you could die a very old man, or woman, waiting for them to get a clue._


	3. Action Movies and Werewolves Don't Mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So maybe Stiles should have invited Scott to watch the latest action movie starring his favorite actor. Maybe then he could've actually seen what was happening on the screen. But, then again...kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Gaming/Watching a movie 
> 
> Again, let me know if you like? Thanks.
> 
> Run-on and fragment sentences will be part and parcel of this entire thing, and I spell theatre that way automatically. Perhaps a throwback to high school French.

"Get your hand out of my face, Derek, I can't see what's happening," Stiles whined, and batted at Derek's hand. He tried to duck around the massive paw, but Derek remained firmly in place, blocking Stiles' view of what what was happening on the movie screen.

"I thought you said this was an action film," Derek hissed, managing to sound hurt. Stiles didn't miss the flash of red in the wolf's eyes, and the way his shoulders tensed as another round of gunfire erupted from the film.

"It is. Relax," Stiles said, rolling his eyes and forcing himself to relax, so that Derek would hopefully get the hint and stop the stiff shoulder act.

Had he known that taking Derek to the movies was going to be so stressful, he wouldn't have. He'd have asked him out for dinner, or maybe they'd have gone to the mini-golf park. Though, he couldn't imagine Derek holding one of those tiny golf clubs and being happy about puttering through the park, hitting a ball into multiple holes. It was an amusing thought, and Stiles caught himself before he could laugh aloud. Laughing would do nothing to get Derek to calm down.

Derek's hand was still in his line of vision as the onscreen violence continued to mount. He knew that he was missing the best parts - where the hero blew the bad guys to pieces while sustaining few injuries himself, and that body parts were being strewn across the whole length of the screen in a glorified rush of blood and guts - he'd have to come back, without Derek, maybe drag Scott out to the movie with him. Scott wouldn't pull this kind of macho crap on him. Wouldn't block out _the best parts_ of the movie.

Stiles frowned at his wolf, and gave him his best, _I-mean-business-mister_ , look. A look he'd learned from his mother. His father, it turned out, was a lot like Derek.

Not that he was, in effect, dating his father, or however that old saying went. He wasn't. No matter the equal parts stubborn and clueless that the wolf, like his father, was, and how annoying Derek was right now as he denied him what he wanted. No doubt the wolf thought it was for Stiles' own good. Just like his father when he refused Stiles access to important police files, the truth about his mother's passing...

"Derek, move," Stiles kept his voice at a whisper, pouring as much indignation as he could into the two words, and pushing at the immovable hand for effect. It didn't budge an inch, and judging by Derek's narrowed eyes, it wasn't the best of moves for him to make and it had only angered the wolf.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and sunk back into his seat. He knew that his actions could be misconstrued as pouting, or throwing a 'temper tantrum' - a rather adult one - but he didn't care. Derek was ruining the movie for him, and he'd been looking forward to watching it for _months_ now. It wasn't fair, and clearly, in the future, he wasn't going to be taking the big, bad werewolf to a bloody action movie. Obviously, in spite of all of the horror that Derek had witnessed, and participated in, Derek couldn't handle movie violence. It was almost laughable, except it was costing Stiles.

"It's not like I haven't seen this kind of thing before," Stiles tossed out, shrugging his shoulders and hardening his jaw. He could be stubborn too, when it was warranted, and, missing the better part of a movie featuring his favorite actor, was one of them. He deliberately kept his voice low and soothing, though, in an effort to 'tame the beast'.

Derek's face replaced his hand, hovering in front of Stiles, blocking his view of whatever was happening onscreen. Judging by the cacophonous sounds, there was another gun battle. The look in Derek's eyes - intense, dark, and _pained_ \- pinned Stiles in place as effectively as his hands ever had, back in the days when he'd slam Stiles up against a wall or a locker just for the heck of it.

Stiles blinked and searched Derek's face for a clue as to what the hell was going on, why the wolf was having a hard time with Hollywood style violence. What he saw was largely unquantifiable, though he recognized grief and regret, both emotions so powerful that Stiles felt as though he'd been struck. In the chest. By a lightning bolt.

"I'm sorry," Derek said. His voice was a jagged whisper. "I should've done more to protect you."

It suddenly struck Stiles that, in his own, broken way, Derek was trying to protect him from the very violence that he'd exposed him to when they'd first met and he'd been a broody, overly aggressive ass of a grumpy wolf with a heavy hand, and an even heavier heart. That Derek was, in a very convoluted way, attempting to fix something that could never be fixed.

Dating Derek was sometimes like trying to swim, upstream, in a river of molasses.

Stiles pressed a hand to Derek's chest, and shook his head. He gave the wolf a lopsided grin, reminding himself that Derek hadn't had much practice with dating when he'd been younger, and that his idea of an action film was probably something along the lines of, _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ , as opposed to a Jason Statham film.

Stiles got the impression that it was mostly about the sex with what's her name. He'd decided, awhile back, that he was going to treat Kate's name the way that the _Harry Potter_ world treated Voldemort's name, because she'd broken Derek's heart, and the boy - now a man - himself. She didn't deserve a name. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

It was a shame that she'd only been after one thing, because other than crap like this -where Derek went psycho-protective on him - it was kind of nice dating Derek. He had a wicked sense of humor when he let his guard down, and was a damn good kisser.

The look that Derek gave him caused Stiles' heart to jump into his throat and his stomach to flutter. He felt his cheeks flush, and, as calmly as he could, he swallowed his heart back to where it should be. Beating, like a multi-winged butterfly, inside his chest.

"This is where you're supposed to kiss me," Stiles breathed the words out. They felt like a prayer.

He licked his lips, and wondered why he hadn't brought Derek to a horror film instead. It was common knowledge that dates were supposed to be shielded from the on-screen horror, that cuddling and making out were pretty much requirements of viewing horror films in a theatre, especially by teens - it was in the teenage dating handbook- and Stiles was very much still a teen, and, emotionally, so was Derek.

"Am I?" Derek's question was an intake of breath.

The wolf's eyes were too dark to read, especially within the semi-darkness of the theatre. The hand that had been blocking Stiles' view of the violence was now cupping the back of his neck, making him shiver.

Stiles held his breath, marveled at how gentle Derek could be when he wanted to, hoped, heart juddering in his chest, that Derek's kiss wouldn't be as gentle as the hand on the back of his neck was.

As their lips touched, the movie theatre was rocked with the sound of multiple explosions, one occurring right after another in what was no doubt a well-timed strike against the enemy's camp. But right now, Stiles had better things on his mind, and in front of his face, blocking his vision.

_Just like the fireworks I've heard people about,_ Stiles thought, lips tingling, heart hammering, light sparking behind lids that had closed of their own accord. All thoughts of taking Scott to future action movies that he actually wanted to watch were banished as the kiss deepened, and Derek let loose a small, possessive growl. He'd wait for the DVD to come out.


	4. Werewolves Can Sometimes Be Very Touchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's hard to get your foot out of your mouth once it's there. A foot in your mouth can make dating very awkward, and difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Dating
> 
> Not sure how I feel about this one, but I let the writing lead it...
> 
> Let me know if you liked this, if you are enjoying this story.
> 
> Thanks

_Dating isn't all that it's cracked up to be,_ Stiles thought, glaring at Derek who was paying him about as much attention as he'd pay a fly buzzing around his ear. Actually, less attention than that, because he wasn't batting at Stiles, or trying to squash him with a newspaper or flyswatter, which, in the grand scheme of things, was a good thing.

_Reader Tip #4: Don't tease your werewolf. Werewolves are very sensitive beasts and will probably spend the rest of your date, pouting, if you make an off-handed comment about how big their ears are, and if they really do aid in better hearing. Or, you know, something like that._

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, and it was like the millionth (maybe minus a couple thousand) times that he'd apologized since he'd inadvertently - slip of the tongue - offended his date.

He twirled spaghetti noodles around the tines of his fork and let them drop back to the plate. He'd lost his appetite. Not that he had much of an appetite to begin with, one of the lovely side-effects of Adderall was a loss of appetite. Though his medication had worn off earlier that day, he still wasn't very hungry.

Derek shrugged and gave Stiles a smile that was not quite a smile. It made him look somewhat like Edward Cullen had when he was trying to keep himself from smelling Bella's blood - slightly constipated and pained, and in spite of that, romantic. It was a little sickening, because Stiles was certain that he'd never be able to pull off such a look, or make Derek's heart skip a beat, or maybe two, with a simple facial expression.

"It's okay," Derek said through his romantic, longsuffering, not-smile, lips barely moving. "I just didn't realize that my ears were that big, and that it was a problem for you."

Stiles facepalmed and groaned. "They aren't, I just...you know I have ADHD right?"

Stiles spread his fingers and peered at Derek through them - gone was the romantic, vampire-like smile. Derek was frowning now, and had an eyebrow arched, and, though he still looked romantic, it was that pained, wronged, kind of romantic, and not the hopeful kind of romantic that meant that Derek was maybe going to forgive him for sticking his foot in his mouth, and down through his throat.

"And sometimes I just...that is sometimes my mouth and my brain aren't exactly on the same page, and when my medication wears off -"

A mouth - hot and very greedy - cut Stiles off mid explanation as lips claimed his and stole his ability to, not only speak, but to think and breathe, though that didn't stop Stiles from trying when he realized that the tables had been turned on him, "Mgrmmfflfmgrmlmmm!"

_Reader Tip #5: Never underestimate your werewolf. Chances are that he's smarter and wilier than he lets on, and, apparently wolves like to tease their unwary, smitten humans, and make them think that one tiny little mistake is the end of the fricking world._

Derek pulled away from the kiss, and Stiles sucked in air, drinking it in like he'd been air deprived for his whole life, but it was Derek's kiss that had suddenly awakened the need in him.

Once his breathing was under control, Derek cupped his hand around an ear and leaned across the table, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that, what did you say?"

"You ass," Stiles said, but he considered the experience - including his guffaw and the grief that Derek put him through - as a win, because Derek was smirking and had that punch-drunk look on his face that he seemed to get whenever they kissed. Stiles' lips were still tingling, and he finally had an appetite.

_Dating, once you get the hang of it, isn't so bad after all, though there's still a lot left to learn,_ Stiles thought, knowing that, tomorrow or the next day, things could go wrong. For now, though, he'd live in the present. Take the wins as they came, no matter how minor they were, and enjoy kissing Derek, and the way that his lips tingled afterward, all the way down to his toes.


	5. Bringing Down the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' thoughts about what it's like to kiss Derek, and his worry that his kisses aren't good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know I'm not wasting my time (or, if I am, let me know that too) posting. 
> 
> Day 5: Kissing

Kissing Derek was a lot like lassoing the moon, and pulling it down to the earth.

Or, maybe it was more like entering a black hole and being torn asunder, transported through a wormhole to a different time and place, a universe not yet discovered by those living on Planet Earth in the Milky Way, and having all of the atoms that made him who he was, reconfigure themselves into something new. A new Stiles who discovered whole galaxies, comprised of alien worlds, in a kiss.

Derek's kisses always left him breathless, lightheaded - feeling a lot like he'd completed a marathon by hopping around the track on one leg. All of the muscles in his entire body felt like they'd been strung taut, and they burned in the aftermath, whenever he'd come up for air.

He wondered what his kisses did for Derek, if anything. If he was any good at it. He'd tried to talk to Scott about it, which had been...awkward, and not in the least bit helpful.

Apparently asking your best friend in all the world to kiss you and give you a detailed description of how that kiss made you feel was crossing some sort of invisible friendship line, though, of course Scott being with Jackson might've had a little something to do with that refusal.

All he wanted though were cold, hard facts. Was he, or was he not, a good kisser? Did he make Derek's toes curl up, or make his insides go all squishy, or make his skin tingle, or make his lips feel all rubbery and loose and bruised when the kiss ended? Did he do anything at all for Derek when they kissed?

He didn't want to ask the big wolf himself, because, well, _awkward,_ not to mention juvenile and desperate, and, well, not very _manly._ Though, maybe Stiles had a skewed view of what it meant to be a _man_ in a relationship. Especially considering who it was that he was dating, and the fact that he'd never dated before Derek, and couldn't even fathom the idea of dating anyone else. Of _kissing_ someone else, because Stiles doubted that anyone else would be able to take him to the moon and back with a single kiss.

Was it really necessary, though, to have distinct roles when dating - wolf or human, male or female?

Did everything need to be labeled and defined? Did one partner have to be the 'girl' and the other the 'boy'? Was it necessary to have the polarity of male/female-like roles when in a relationship? Were he and Derek actually _in_ a relationship?

What was it that they had - just a series of unconnected dates, or the start of a bona fide relationship that would lead to something with a future?

And, what did any of that mean for the kissing?

Did the way that Derek's kisses made him feel - like a sailor lost at sea; a rabid dog surrounded by water that it couldn't drink; a merman stranded on shore with a pair of brand new legs - mean that they were a couple, that they had something that might maybe, kind of sort of, be love? And, if Stiles' kisses _didn't_ make Derek lose himself the way that Derek's kisses did, what did that mean?

"What're you thinking about?" Derek asked, index finger tracing Stiles' jawline.

They were in Stiles' room, lying on the bed, face-to-face, door open, because Dad had a door open policy when it came to him and Derek. He could keep his door closed when Scott was over. Stiles hadn't won _that_ particular argument with his father.

Unfair or not, the door remained open when Derek was over, end of discussion. Not that there'd actually _been_ a discussion, more like an ultimatum and some rather immature stomping up the stairs and a slamming of the bedroom door in question when the subject had been broached.

Stiles felt heat rise to his cheeks, and he looked at Derek through his lashes, held his breath, because, well, _because_. Derek's lips were right there, and well within kissing range, and, what better way to answer Derek's question than by showing him what he'd been thinking about?

So, Stiles surged upward, catching Derek's bottom between his teeth and tugging at it, prising the man's mouth open, apparently startling him if the near-squawk sound that Derek made was anything to judge by. It was the first time that Stiles had really done anything like this, initiated, and then taken charge of a kiss, and though Derek stiffened at first, he relaxed, let Stiles lead the kiss, kissing back, moaning, letting Stiles sprawl out on top of him and be in control.

It was heady and empowering and Stiles really didn't want to stop to breathe, because who needed air? Air was for people who didn't have werewolves to kiss.

Eventually, though, Stiles' lungs protested the arguments that his brain had made, and they were very good arguments. Very, very good arguments, because Derek was moaning and his legs were wrapped around Stiles' waist, and, and, and...he was suddenly gasping in too much air, hiccoughing and choking on it.

Stiles rested his cheek against Derek's chest, which was still heaving with the lungfuls of air that he was dragging in to compensate for the air that he'd been deprived of for the length of their kiss.

"Did the earth actually move, or -"

"Fuck, Stiles." Derek's voice was husky, and the hand that he had on Stiles' back was shaking. "Who taught you to kiss like that?"

"So, you liked it?" Stiles asked the question quietly, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible.

"Hell, yeah," Derek said, and he dragged a hand through Stiles' hair, held him close. "Everytime we kiss, I feel like there's nothing else, no one else in the world but the two of us."

It was a rare moment of truth, and vulnerability, from Derek, and Stiles pressed a kiss to his collarbone, reveled in the fact that Derek actually shuddered, that there were goosebumps prickling the heated flesh.

"Really?" Stiles asked, because he was feeling more than just a little vulnerable himself.

"Stiles, kissing you is like trying to contain the sun, or the beast that tries to claw its way out of me during every full moon," Derek admitted, voice a low rumble, fingers stilling in their rhythmic movements in Stiles' hair.

"Oh," Stiles breathed out, stomach twisting in knots, filling with butterflies. Maybe this _is_ the real thing, and maybe it wasn't just a series of unconnected dates that were going nowhere.

"Did you feel the same way with Kate?" Stiles asked, holding his breath for the answer, feeling stupid for blurting the question out when things were going so well, and they could be kissing instead.

Derek kissed the top of Stiles' head, his wrist, the palm of his hand. "No, not even close." There was no indulgent tone, no indication that Derek was lying, and, when Stiles met Derek's gaze, he could see that the man, the wolf, meant what he'd said.

"I love you," Stiles said, and then he ducked his head, because it was too soon for such bald declarations, and he was certain he'd made a fool of himself, and just proven to Derek what the wolf had been trying to convince him of before they'd actually started dating - that Stiles was too young for him.

"I love you, too," Derek said, voice hoarse, fingers digging into Stiles' shoulder.

"Let's kiss?" Stiles suggested, needing to somehow lighten the mood, and to feel Derek's mouth - hot and wet and so delicious - on his.

Kissing Derek was a lot like trying to lasso the moon, and pull it down to the earth. Knowing that Derek felt the same way, or close to it, about the way that he kissed, put them on an even playing field, made them equally vulnerable. Made the way that they kissed so much better.


	6. The Birds and the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Stilinski sees his son wearing Derek's shirt. He has some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features Stiles and his father. 
> 
> Prompt 6: Wearing Each Others' Clothes
> 
> Feedback - please.

“Where’d you get that shirt?” Stiles’ Dad frowned and peered a little more closely at the shirt that Stiles was wearing. 

Feeling a little self-conscious, Stiles took a step back, but his Dad followed him and touched the shirt in question. It was a little big on him. Okay, a lot big on him, but it was comfy, and it made him feel safe, which was a lot of power to put on a single shirt. 

And, it smelled like Derek -- woodsy and something spicy, like cinnamon, but not exactly cinnamon. Maybe cardamon, though Stiles wasn’t sure what cardamon smelled like. For all he knew it smelled like Derek, or Derek like it.

“It’s uh Derek’s,” Stiles said, batting his father’s hand away. 

He had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear in his father knowing that the black shirt he was wearing -- had been wearing for the past week and a half -- was Derek’s, that the werewolf had given it to him to wear. Stiles had a suspicion that this was one way for Derek to ‘mark’ him, and, in a way, it was kind of sweet, and kind of creepy, but he ignored the creepy in favor of the sweet. 

He’d offered Derek a shirt of his, but the wolf had declined, saying that he didn’t think it would fit. But, Stiles did notice that one of his sweaters was missing. A light blue one that was a little too big on him (okay, so, it swallowed him, but his aunt had done her best with it, and it was the thought that counted).

His father raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. His eyebrow spoke for him though, and Stiles followed him into the kitchen. Unsure of how to broach the subject that needed broaching, he watched his father grab a beer and the cold cut sandwich that he’d made earlier that day. He tossed Stiles a soda, and sat down at the kitchen table. 

Stiles sat down across from him, twirling the neck of the bottle of soda between his fingers before opening it and taking a gulp of it and nearly choking. When he was done sputtering, he saw that his father’s eyes were on him, even though he was taking a sip of his beer. Stiles recognized the look -- speculative -- an inwardly groaned. 

“Seems like you and Derek are getting pretty serious,” his father said, and Stiles wondered if it was too late for the floor to swallow him.

He took a long sip of his soda, narrowly avoiding choking on it a second time, and then nodded. 

“Yep.” 

Not his usual wordy self, but he was a little nervous, in spite of the fact that this was his father, and, since he could remember they’d been open with each other about almost everything. To be fair, though, he’d never been in a relationship before now, and this was brand new territory for the both of them. Awkwardness to be had all around. 

His father cleared his throat, and took a bite of his sandwich. Stiles watched in dumb fascination as his father washed the bite down with a healthy swallow of beer, throat undulating in a way that made Stiles think of snakes, which was in no way conducive to having an adult conversation with his father. He needed to keep a tight reign on his impulses.

Free Reader Tip #7: When dating, Dads must be approached very carefully, especially if they’re a gun-wielding sheriff, and can, potentially, get away with murder. 

By the time his father had finished his sandwich, mopping up the crumbs with an index finger, Stiles’ palms were sweaty, and he was close to babbling, because he and silence didn’t mix well. Something that his father often used toward his advantage. No torture worked better on his son, than that of silence. It was the best way to loosen Stiles’ tongue, and they both knew it. It wasn’t like it was a big secret.

“So,” his father said, resting his elbows on the table, the beer bottle dangling between his fingers. His eyes held Stiles’ in a steady, soul-searching gaze. 

“So,” Stiles said, folding his hands on the table in front of him, mouth and throat unaccountably dry. He contemplated the soda, and pushed it away, because, two could play at this game, though he had no idea what the rules were. His father had never actually sat him down and discussed dating, probably never saw the need to before now. Of course, his father had probably assumed that he’d be dating a girl close to his own age, and not a man who was six years older than him. 

“You’re wearing his clothes,” his father pointed out, rather needlessly.

“It’s just one shirt,” Stiles defended, plucking at it. 

“And, you got it exactly how?” his father asked, taking a not so casual sip of his beer while spearing Stiles with a look that made him cringe.

He blinked at his father, mouth opening and closing, and cheeks flushing as he realized, a little late on the draw, exactly what it was that his father was really getting at. He reached for the soda with nerveless fingers, looking away from his father and taking a generous swig of the overly sweet drink, hoping that he could drown in it. His ears felt like they were on fire, and he so did not want to have  this  conversation with his father. Not now, not ever. And, what did his father know about this kind of thing anyway, it wasn’t like his father had ever dated a man before...had he?

“Stiles, how did you get the shirt?” his father persisted, and Stiles forced himself to look away from the ring of water that his soda bottle had made on the table, and at his father. He suddenly felt small, and alone, and wished that a bell would ring somewhere so that he could be saved by it. 

“Derekgaveittometheotherday,” he muttered, words blending together in his nervousness, because he knew that, though the act had been completely innocent, and sex-free, his father would insist on having  the  talk with him. 

“Stiles, I uh, realize,” his father cleared his throat, and Stiles could see that red was slowly crawling up his face too. “I realize that you like, uh. Uh, that is, I --”

“I like boys,” Stiles finished for his dad, taking pity on him, though it was clear his father was  not  going to take pity on him and end this awkward conversation any time soon. “And, girls, too, I like girls and boys, and, I just, well...”

His father cut him off with an upheld hand, and took another sip of his beer, before continuing. “I just want you to know that I’m okay with,” he waved his hand in the air, “all of that. I just, well, I’m just concerned because Derek’s, well, he’s older son, and --”

“He’s not taking advantage of me,” Stiles quickly reassured his father. “He’s not like that. He’s the one who keeps insisting that we need to take it slow, that we should wait for...you know, until I’m eighteen.”

His father’s eyebrows went up to his hairline, and Stiles realized that he’d admitted to a little too much. He held his head in his hand, and gave his father a sheepish look. 

“We haven’t  done anything,” Stiles said,  other than kiss, he didn’t add aloud, because he  really didn’t want to go there with his dad. 

“He gave me his shirt just, because.” He was  not  going to tell his father his theory about Derek’s possible need to mark him with his scent. That just wasn’t going to happen, not in this lifetime.  This  was hard enough to get through.

His father gave him a look that said he wasn’t fooling anyone, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “I promise, Dad, scout’s honor.” He made the sign of the cross over his heart. 

“You were never a scout, Stiles,” his father countered, though his lips were twitching, and Stiles inwardly sighed in relief. 

“And, I understand that this is uncomfortable for you; it’s uncomfortable for me, too, but I love you, Stiles. You’re the only one I’ve got left in this world, and I want to keep you safe, and if that means --”

“Dad, Derek’s been nothing but a gentleman with me,” Stiles assured his father,  a little too gentlemanly at times , he silently added. “He’s good to me, and he’s not going to hurt me.”

“I just wish I could be so certain of that,” his father said quietly, looking into his beer bottle. 

“There’s just...I don’t know how to deal with this, you know.” He raised his eyes to Stiles, and Stiles’ chest tightened at the raw love and worry that he saw reflected in his father’s eyes. 

“I guess I just never thought I’d have to talk to my teenage son about dating an older man. I was so grateful that you were a boy, because I knew that I’d be all thumbs raising a girl, and I think I’m putting my foot in it...”

“I get it Dad,” Stiles said, jumping out of his seat and rounding the table to wrap his father in a hug. He kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me and Derek, promise.”

“Son,” his father sighed, placing a kiss on his head. “There’s never going to be a time when I don’t worry about you.”

“I know, but, we’re not...we’re not uh, having sex,” Stiles pushed the words past his lips, his insides feeling a little funny as he did so. 

“Well, when you do decide to,” his father pressed a finger to Stiles’ lips when he opened his mouth to protest. “Son, you’re a teenager, and, unfortunately, I do know exactly what it’s like to be a teenage boy in the throes of hormones. One thing leads to another -- it may start out as just kissing, but then you get caught up in the moment, and before you know it the two of you are naked and...”

Where is a black hole when I need one? Stiles thought, wishing for all the world that he could stuff his fingers into his ears and start singing at the top of the lungs, like he’d done when he was a little kid; that he could unhear what he’d already heard.

“Now, I’m not sure how it works between two men, but I’ve got an inkling, and well, do you have condoms and you know...lubrication?” His father was just about as red as he was when he finished, but Stiles had to give the man credit. 

“Dad...” 

“I’ll take you to the store tomorrow. A man should always carry protection, because he can’t count on his date taking care of things like that. Never assume that your partner’s going to have a condom. Something that’s the same no matter which gender you’re dating,” his father added with a small, triumphant smile. 

“My dad told me the same thing when I was your age, uh, well, to be honest, I was a couple of years younger than you were.” He glanced away, and scratched at his head, blushing again. 

Stiles giggled, trying to picture his father in this very situation. At least his father had been in his shoes -- kind of -- and he’d had to endure this whole spiel. 

“I love you, Dad,” Stiles said, kissing his father sloppily on the cheek.

His father rolled his eyes and rubbed the slobber off of his cheek. His eyes were shining though, the love that he felt for Stiles evident. “I love you, too, son.”


	7. Waiting for Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosplay is the word.

"I'm _not_ going to wear that," Derek said, adamant as he pushed away the costume that Stiles was holding out to him.

"But, if we're going to fit in at the convention, you know, to get the skinny on what new evil seeks to set itself up in Beacon Hills, we need to dress the part," Stiles said, not for the first time. He was very proud of himself for being able to keep the whine out of his voice, and for not flinching at Derek's growled response.

 _Free Reader Tip #8: Werewolves are extremely stubborn creatures; you need to be very persistent and sneaky to get them to do what you want. Really, to get them to do what you know is best for them. This_ _**will**_ _take time. Don't give up hope. Especially when you know you're right, and your werewolf knows that you're right. Pride plays a big part in all of this. Pride and straight up pigheadedness._

A little more cajoling and promises that no pictures would be taken, and Stiles managed to get his werewolf into the costume. Derek made for a rather sexy looking, old-school Batman if Stiles did say so himself. And, as Derek was remaining pouty and put-out about the whole thing, eyeing the bat gloves as if they were minions of Hell that would suddenly come to life and strangle him, Stiles was the only one noting the sexiness of the whole ensemble and wishing, a little, that he hadn't made that promise to his dad, and Derek, about no sex until he turned eighteen.

The minute he _did_ turn eighteen, he was definitely going to make Derek suit up, and have his way with the Bat. _Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, Batman!_


	8. Keeping Your Wolf Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word is shopping.

Derek was muttering under his breath. Something about nosy little humans not minding their own damn business, and he could take care of himself, thank you very much. That's the gist of what the werewolf was saying anyway. Stiles was only paying him half a mind as they walked up and down the aisles of the grocery store.

Stiles had often heard similar rantings from his father, whenever they went grocery shopping, so he'd learned to tune out the disgruntled ramblings. He _did_ know what he was doing, and no, Derek, and his father, could _not_ take care of themselves. Case in point: bare cupboards, unless one counted spiderwebs filled with fat, juicy flies, which Stiles most certainly didn't count; a refrigerator with half a jar of outdated mayo, a single egg, a handful of beers (and not even a decent brand), a slice of cheese that had seen better days - _in the Depression_ \- and a flickering bulb; nothing but ice in the freezer.

And, for the second time, no, he wasn't, in essence, or otherwise, dating his father. That the two men had striking similarities, like not being able to properly stock their refrigerators or cupboards, was neither here nor there. That Stiles felt compelled to make sure both men ate healthy diets, was...well, it just was.

_Free Reader Tip #9: You have to take care of your wolf, because he won't take care of himself. Period. This involves grocery shopping, and listening to him grumble about said shopping. In the end, it'll be worth the pain, because your wolf will be healthier, and live a longer life._

"I do not need...quinoa, what the hell is quinoa?" Derek tried to place the box back on the shelf, Stiles swiftly swept it back into the wagon, and quickly pushed it down the aisle.

"It's good for you," Stiles said, and he tossed in a box of whole grain spaghetti noodles. "And, if you're a good little shopper, I'll even cook it for you one of these days."

Derek snorted, and Stiles chanced a look at the man. Though he wasn't smiling, the lines around his mouth and eyes had diminished, slightly. Maybe they'd survive this shopping trip after all.


	9. Hanging out with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek isn't really a plus one kind of date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought that perhaps I would add a little to this, because the Muse was itching to write, and this is what came when I sat down to do it. I'm not at a stage where I can argue with the Muse, because I have been longing to write, and it hasn't been coming. 
> 
> Let me know if you like. This one's...I don't know. It's been so long.

_Free Reader Tip #10: You have no friends that are not pack. This is okay. Really. It’s not insular, or controlling. It just is. And it’s not all that bad. Honestly. It keeps the wolf happy, and what keeps the wolf happy keeps you happy. Trust me on this. You don’t even want to go there._

Things could be worse. Stiles knows this as well as he knows that the scowl on Derek’s face is not directed at him, though he’s looking at Stiles, and, as far as scowls go, it’s pretty intense. It is, in a round about way, directed at the boy sitting in the booth on the left of Stiles.

The booth’s crowded with members from the team, and Stiles is sandwiched between the kid that Derek is not-scowling-scowling at, and Derek. Stiles is stuck between the proverbial rock and a very, very hard (ice cold, bordering on fire) place, what with the way that Derek’s thumb is running along the inner seam of his jeans, a little too close to a certain part of his anatomy that, should it be activated, would make this whole gathering even more hot and uncomfortable than it already is.

The kid’s name is Patrick, or Ronald, or maybe Barry. Something with a P, or maybe an S. Stiles can’t quite remember what the kid’s name is, he’s a bench-warmer. An over-enthusiastic freshman. A touchy-feeling, over-enthusiastic freshman whose hands, and shoulder, and thigh brush against Stiles a little too often for it to be accidental.

The kid’s face is flushed, and he’s speaking animatedly about some move that Stiles apparently made on the field (he doesn’t remember), and his eyes (they’re brown, or hazel, or blue, Stiles doesn’t really know) are lit up with something that might be hero worship. Stiles really hopes it isn’t, catches Derek’s hand in one of his own when the wolf’s fingers start to curl in a fist.

Derek’s sub audio growl is more than a little disconcerting, but no one else seems to realize what’s happening, they’re listening to Patrick-Barry-Ron-Sal? wax on about how awesome tonight’s game was. He’s giving some kind of play-by-play rendition where Stiles is somehow featuring in plays that he hadn’t even been in. None of the others are paying any attention to the glowering, nearly growling friend that Stiles has brought along for their get together.

“When can we leave?” Derek leans in to whisper, voice taut, and there’s just a touch of the growl that he is, thankfully, suppressing.

Stiles takes another bite of the slice of pizza that he’s been attempting, for the past fifteen minutes, to eat. It’s gone cold, and tastes like rubber. He’s only had a single bite and a sip of soda, though Derek’s inhaled three slices, and he’s moved on to sneaking sips from Stiles’ soda, because Derek’s stomach is apparently a vacuum, and Stiles doesn’t even want to think about how dry his throat is, or the picture of sex that Derek made when he’d had his lips wrapped around the straw, throat undulating as he sucked.

Derek leans in closer, reaching for Stiles’ soda, thumb circling the danger zone, elbow jostling Stiles’ ribs, and Stiles closes his eyes, holds his breath as he tries, and fails, to stifle a moan. He bites his lip, and scoots back into his seat in a vain attempt to put some distance between himself and Derek, shoves at Derek’s hand, and, when that doesn’t work, he inwardly groans, plasters a smile on his face, and makes up some kind of excuse for leaving early.

At least he hopes he does, because the next thing he remembers is sitting in the passenger’s seat of Derek’s car, bucking up into Derek’s hand where it rubs at him, his erection straining against the confines of his jeans.


	10. With Animal Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles may or may not have a thing for wolf ears, and Derek is not going to let on that he doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek wanted this from his perspective. I did not see fit to argue with him.

_Free Reader Tip #11: Try not to mention the wolf ears when they pop out unexpectedly, but do touch them. Pet them. Nuzzle them. And, even though you’re thinking about it, do not, under any circumstances, look into animal ear kink...not if you value your sanity, and want to be able to look your wolf in the eye without blushing fifty shades of scarlet, or, you know, just want to be able to think straight when he’s feeling a little wolfy. Just...take my word on this, trust me, one day you’ll thank me._

Derek’s ear twitches. There’s a nose buried in it, soft puffs of warm air tickle it, but that’s not the most disconcerting thing about any of this. No, what’s disconcerting is that he’s sprawled out on Stilinski’s couch, Stiles is crashed out on top of him, nuzzling his ear, and Stiles’ father could walk in on them at any moment.

But, he’s hard pressed (the key word being hard) to do anything about it, because, as disconcerting as all of this is, it’s also comfortable. And so what if he slips a little from time to time? Stiles likes his ‘wolf ears’, and Derek likes the way that Stiles likes them -- fingers, lips, tongue, teeth, and all.

Sighing in contentment when Stiles murmurs, the sound traveling straight down Derek’s spine, and shifts so that his nose is buried deeper in Derek’s ear, Derek closes his eyes and listens to Stiles breathe. The younger man’s heartbeat soothes him back into the comfortable doze that he’d woken from. Hopefully the sheriff won’t come home, shotgun at the ready.


	11. Kigurumi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes an interesting choice in nighttime fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, this is a prompt fic. I'm hoping this works out okay. It's not something I've given much thought to -- adult onesies. Might be interesting, but it's way too hot where I live to give it any serious consideration. 
> 
> Hopefully this is okay.

"What the hell is that?" There's no anger in Derek's voice, but Stiles winces anyway, face turning bright red, right to the tips of his ears, which are, thankfully, covered.

Derek's got this look on his face, and Stiles isn't sure what to make of it, because it's a look that he hasn't seen before. One that is difficult to catalog (not that he keeps a list of Derek's looks, or anything, except, he kind of does, unofficially).

It's not a look that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, or his heart race, or fill with sympathy. It's a look that borders on pissing him off, but also makes him want to reach over and lay claim to Derek's mouth, lips quirked upward and twitching as though he's trying not to laugh.

"It's called a kigurumi," Stiles says, shrugging, lowering his eyes. "It's a wolf."

Derek laughs, and Stiles' stomach clenches. His cheeks heat up with anger, rather than embarrassment, and when Derek reaches for him, he pulls away.

Derek doesn't give up, though, pulls Stiles flush against his body, and rubs his cheek against Stiles'. The stubble on the man's chin, rubbing against the smoothness of his own cheek, stirs something inside of Stiles that he wishes it wouldn't, because right now, he wants to be mad.

"I like it," Derek says, and there's a hint of laughter still present, though Derek's lips brush over Stiles, and take away some of the sting.

"A sheep in wolf's clothing," he says, his voice a deep tenor that goes right to Stiles' groin, thumb tracing Stiles' jaw, and suddenly there's too much clothing between him and the real wolf.

_Free Reader Tip #12: Don't buy an adult onesie, unless you don't mind a little wear and tear. Emphasis on the tear. And if you don't want your wolf to develop a fetish._


	12. Making Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek runs hot. Stiles runs a little cold. Together, they're perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that writing about making out would be easier than it turned out to be...maybe my muse is just a little rusty, or stressed.

It's a cool evening, but the heat between them is enough to keep them warm. Derek's always run a little hot, Stiles a little cold. Together, they're just right. A perfect storm, like two opposing weather fronts, and sometimes there're even sparks of electricity between them. Invisible, but tangible, and Stiles' heart stutters and stops, his breath gets caught on an inhale as he forgets to breathe out.

Teeth sharp enough to strip meat from bone, nibble at Stiles' ear, make him shiver and gasp, grind against Derek's palm. This should be terrifying; playing with the edge of a knife. It isn't. It's thrilling. Exciting. A fucking turn on to play with danger, and come away with nothing more than a smattering of dark bruises along his neck, and across his collarbone.

Derek's hands are rough, yet gentle, and there is no room for growth in a tight pair of jeans. Nowhere for Stiles to _move_ once Derek sets himself up against a panic attack, because, as it turns out, making out with a werewolf is an excellent cure for panic attacks - a way to get Stiles' mind to finally disengage, and lose itself in sensation; the smell of dirt, sweat and pine; the feel of a day's worth of stubble against the smoothness of his cheek; the heart of a wolf pounding out a steady rhythm for Stiles' own heart to follow.

_Free Reader Tip #13: When making out with your werewolf, don't be alarmed if you suddenly forget how to breathe. Sometimes you might even forget your own name. That's okay though, it's only temporary, it'll come back to you...eventually, and, if not, your wolf will remind you of it afterwards, once you're nothing but a noodly mess, nerveless and completely at his mercy. That's not a bad place to be. Let him take care of you._


	13. Sticky Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's a sentimental sap, and Stiles is covered in ice cream. He's always been a messy eater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek decided to pop in again as story teller. I was struggling with writing this chapter, thinking it needed to be in Stiles' perspective, but, no, it did not. 
> 
> Writing prompt: Eating ice cream
> 
> This is sticky and sweet and a little angsty. The sheriff makes an appearance (hopefully it's not too awkward). Please forgive any errors that you may find. I hope you enjoy it.

It’s obscene. There’s no other word for it, but Derek can’t take his eyes off of Stiles. The boy is a sticky mess of melted rocky road, chocolate chip cookie dough, marshmallow creme, and hot fudge. Fingers practically glued together, lips and tongue coated with the messy combination. 

He declines the proffered spoon piled high with ice cream when Stiles shoves it in his face, ignores the boy’s frown, and feels like he needs to take a walk, stretch his legs, get as far away from the sticky mess that is currently his boyfriend before he loses it completely, and does something drastic, like haul the boy upstairs and drop him in the shower, or lick him clean.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Derek tenses, closes his eyes, suppresses the urge to growl, fakes a smile instead as the sheriff leans close, squeezes his shoulder in something that feels like commiseration rather than a threat. Though if the sheriff knew where his thoughts had been, Derek doubts that the man would stop at squeezing his shoulder. He may have given Derek permission to date his son, but that doesn’t mean the permission extends to carrying out Derek’s lascivious thoughts involving Stiles as a hot, gooey mess that he washes clean with his tongue. 

“He’s always been a messy eater,” the sheriff says, and Stiles scowls at his father, mouth full of ice cream, pouting, and reaching for the photo album that the sheriff plops down in front of Derek. The sheriff bats Stiles’ hands away and delivers his son a look that causes the boy to sigh loudly and lean back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes narrowed in a promise of payback.

The book’s open, and there’s a picture of Stiles. He’s maybe two, three years old tops, and there’s a mad grin on his face. He’s naked. Covered from head to toe in a mess of spaghetti (noodles dangling from his ears), chocolate sauce, and, Derek peers closer, nose almost pressed to the childhood photo of his boyfriend, squints, because he can’t quite make out what that gooey substance all over the two year old is. 

“Is that...peanut butter?” Derek asks, casting a horrified look over his shoulder at Stiles’ father who has a solemn look on his face. 

“And chocolate chip cookie crumbs,” the sheriff says, reaching over Derek’s shoulder to point out the crumbs in the toddler’s belly button. “We left him alone for two, maybe three minutes, and...”

“I was two and a half years old,” Stiles says, voice pitching as he defends himself, melted ice cream flying from the spoon that he jabs in their direction. A dollop of ice cream lands on the photo, and the sheriff wipes it off. 

Derek’s fingers itch with the sudden urge to pull out his cellphone and take a picture of Stiles as he is now, mouth covered in ice cream and hot fudge, lips turned downward in a pout, fingers curled possessively around the sundae dish as though he anticipates it being stolen away from him. The sheriff beats him to it. Snaps off several photos, catching Stiles’ pout, his scowl, the narrowing of his eyes, his launch across the table that puts Derek in the middle of the father/son altercation that ends in stickiness and laughter and an ache of longing in his chest. 

In that moment, he misses his family. Misses wild runs through the forest that inevitably ended in some kind of chase where Derek would wind up much as he is now -- pinned at the bottom of what his mother had affectionately termed a ‘puppy pile’ -- laughing until there were tears in his eyes. 

The kiss comes naturally, and, though Stiles’ mouth is sticky and overly sweet, and the boy twines his messy fingers through Derek’s hair, leaving it tacky and making it stick up in places, it’s a kiss that leaves him hungering for more, even while it is oddly satisfying. Like he’s had, not only dessert, but an entire meal, yet it’s only whet his appetite. The ache in his chest is a little less, though.

_Free Reader Tip #14: Wolves are sentimental saps. Don’t let them tell you otherwise, and don’t let them fool themselves. It’s your duty as a human to keep them from becoming too broody. They need you more than they let on. And they secretly love ice cream, especially when it’s on the lips, or abs, of someone they love. (These are my wolf’s exact words; okay, almost exact words, I cleaned them up some. You know, for posterity’s sake, and for the little kids, not that little kids should be reading this or anything, because this is not for little kids. Strictly adult material here, folks. Go read The Cat in the Hat, or Danny and the Dinosaur, or Where the Wild Things Are. Books are good for you. So are chocolate, and ice cream, and...lazy Sunday mornings.)_

When they come up for breath, it’s just the two of them, the sheriff has snuck away to the living room, having first retrieved the precious photo album, saving it from the threat of stickiness. Stiles has somehow managed to work his way onto Derek’s lap, long legs dangling over the sides of the chair, sticky hands wrapped around the back of Derek’s neck, fingers kneading at the tension there. 

It’s comfortable, and Stiles tastes like sugar on steroids. Derek has a feeling that he’s going to like getting to know the different flavors of Stiles, wants him covered head to toe in something sweet and savory, something that he can spend hours licking off of his boy. 

 


	14. Never Say Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a chance meeting with a dark mage, Stiles and Derek's lives are not the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this was: Genderswapped  
> I titled it, Never Say Never, because I thought I'd never write a genderswap story (they're not my cup of tea). 
> 
> **Warning:** This features femslash, and memories of teenage boys masturbating with articles of clothing...hopefully no one finds this overly disturbing. The ending is extremely cheesy. This is imperfect. I apologize in advance for everything.

_Free Reader Tip #15: Magic is evil. Okay, so it’s only evil some of the time, and only when certain people (not yours truly) are using it, but it’s important to be aware of that, and of the fact that bad mojo can really mess with your wolf’s head. It’s not a good thing. Especially the evil kind of magic that gives your wolf a splitting headache and leaves you wishing that you’d never been born because the pain is that unbearable._

Though the spell is cast on Sunday morning, the effects don’t show up until late Tuesday afternoon, thankfully after Stiles has left school for the day, and just after he’s made it through the front door.

He doesn’t even know how he made it through the day, because halfway through second period, it felt like his bones were in some kind of vise that was constantly being tightened. His head had felt like someone was shoving an icepick through it over and over again at regular intervals, and his insides felt like they were being mistaken for one of those long balloons that can be twisted into animal shapes. He’d hated clowns before. He hates them even more now, and he knows that he’s being irrational, but he can’t help it, because he is in pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

By the time he makes it to his room, his stomach is on fire, and his body is turning itself inside-out -- literally. It feels like his bones are breaking, the joints popping. He can hear it. Hear, and feel them shifting around inside of him. It’s excruciating, and it’s not until he catches a glimpse of himself in his bedroom mirror that he connects the pain to its source -- the mage in the forest; black eyes filled with anger and hatred; words shouted at him and Derek in a language that sounded like something a child had made up to pretend to speak Chinese; air shifting around them; a spark of electricity that had made his skin tingle, and his ears pop.

“This is not happening,” Stiles says, eyes wide with fear and disbelief, heart skipping a beat as he takes a good, long look at himself in the mirror and sees someone else looking back at him.

His stomach twists sharply, and Stiles bites his lip, hard, makes it bleed, wraps a protective arm around his aching stomach. His eyes narrow in on the blood as it’s reflected in the mirror, because that is the only real thing in all of this. The rest of it can’t be real, in spite of what he’s seeing in the mirror, what his eyes are telling him is true, because this kind of thing does not happen in the real world. It happens in science fiction, fan fiction, sometimes fantasy, but it does not happen to real people, unless they take pains to make it happen, and Stiles has not done that, does not want to do that, because he likes who he is just fine. Enjoys being a boy in love with a grumpy wolf.

His mouth opens in a silent scream as a fresh wave of pain assaults him, and he doubles over, clutching at the edge of his dresser. Knees buckling, he crashes to the floor, and, body wracked by a series of mind-numbing seizures that make him feel like he’s being electrocuted, he passes out, wakes to darkness that feels absolute. He’s cold. His body aches. His head feels like it’s made of lead, and he can’t move, though his muscles twitch every few seconds, making him feel on edge.

He’s bit through his bottom lip. It stings and the taste of blood lingers in his mouth, makes him feel sick as does the memory of what he’d seen in the mirror. He thinks that maybe Peter was right, they should have killed the mage right away, instead of giving him a chance to surrender, but Stiles hadn’t wanted another death on Derek’s, or even Peter’s, conscience.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time -- giving the mage a chance to surrender on his own -- now Stiles realizes that it hadn’t been a good idea at all, but it’s too late, because the damage has been done, and he doesn’t know if it’s reversible, hopes that it is, because he can’t fathom living out the rest of his life like this.

The sound of his father moving around downstairs spurs Stiles into movement. He sits up, resting his back against the dresser, and closing his eyes until his head stops feeling like it’s going to spin off of his neck.

“Stiles? You home?” his father calls up the stairs, and Stiles’ head pounds.

He opens his mouth to respond, but clamps it shut again. How is he going to explain this to his father? His dad’s not going to understand. Stiles is having a hard time wrapping his mind around it himself. His father’s new to all of this -- werewolves and magic and the supernatural.

He can just imagine the conversation unfolding. Hey, son...whoa, wait, who are you? You’re not my son. Well, Dad, you see...

Groaning, Stiles pushes himself to his feet, forces himself to look at his reflection in the mirror and confirm what he’d seen the beginnings of before he’d mercifully blacked out. Turning the light on, Stiles stares at himself in the mirror. His tee-shirt is taut across his chest, showing off his midriff, and his jeans are far too tight, no longer hanging off of his hips.

He raises a hand to his hair in disbelief and wonder. It’s no longer as short as it once was, but falls in a wavy cascade down past his shoulders. It’s thick and a rich, coppery brown in color. His green eyes are offset by high cheekbones, and long eyelashes, which haven’t really changed all that much -- they’ve always been long, and as Scott liked to tease, girly. His lips are fuller and just a touch more plump, his chin more angular.

Stiles turns around, eyeing himself in the mirror as he does so. His ass is bigger than it was, his hips wider, his waist thinner. And he’s definitely got breasts now. They’re not as big as Lydia’s, but they’re big enough to cause heads to turn. At least they would have caused his head to turn had they been on someone else’s body. He resists the urge to touch and poke at them, squeeze them like some kind of perverted anime character, and mentally slaps himself as he zeroes in on the nipples that are definitely showing through the thin tee-shirt that he’s wearing. It’s a little cold in his room, and they’re definitely a tad on the perky side. An experimental thumb rub through the fabric of his tee-shirt raises goose-flesh on his arms, makes the nipple harden in response.

He blushes, his cheeks coloring slightly as his thoughts turn toward Derek, wondering what the wolf would make of him now. If Derek would think he was pretty, or if he would laugh at the dusting of freckles on his pert nose, and the way his cheeks dimple when he smiles.

“This isn’t real,” Stiles says in a voice that is soft and feminine, too high pitched to be his own. He clamps a hand over his mouth, his fingers are slender, bordering on delicate, his hands smaller and decidedly ‘girly’.

He pinches himself, and winces in pain. “Ouch.”

“Who the hell are you? Stiles? You in here?”

His father’s voice startles him, as does his looming figure that blocks the doorway. There’s a scowl on his father’s face, and Stiles offers him a sheepish smile, even as his father’s eyes narrow on him, and the man frowns.

“Are those Stiles’ clothes?” he asks, entering the room. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles holds his hands out in front of him, ignoring how different they feel, how small they look. How they hardly seem to weigh anything at all.

“Dad,” Stiles says. “It’s me.”

His father’s forehead creases in confusion and his eyes widen in panic, and Stiles realizes a few seconds too late that his father’s mistaken his meaning. In any other circumstances, it would be funny, and Stiles would laugh, but this isn’t funny, and he needs his father to understand what happened. Needs his father to believe that this girl standing in front of him is, in fact, his son, and not some strange girl pretending to be his daughter from some undisclosed affair.

He ignores the little voice at the back of his head that says the horror on his father’s face is a little too real for this to be something that the man has never considered, because he does not want to go there. The thought of his father with another woman, other than his mother is not something that Stiles can handle right now, not on top of magically morphing into a curvy girl.

His father is shaking his head, though, lips thinned in a look that Stiles is very familiar with. If he’s not careful, his father will kick him out, or haul him off to jail. That would not be a good thing right now. Not that the prospect of being jailed is ever a good thing.

“Dad, it’s me,” he tries again, ignoring the unfamiliar sound of the feminine voice that’s coming from him. “It’s Stiles. I...there was a mage, and he cast a spell on me and Derek, and he turned me into a girl, but I don’t think it’s permanent, at least I hope it isn’t, and I need you to believe me, because I --”

He’s cut off by his father’s laughter. His father’s laughing so hard that there are tears in his eyes, and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, protectively, his lower lip trembles and he doesn't understand his reaction, why he feels like crying just because his father is laughing at what he thinks is some elaborate joke being pulled on him by Stiles and some girl that he’s never met before.

“That’s a good one. You almost had me. Okay, Stiles, you can come out now,” his father says, once his laughter has subsided, and he’s wiped away the tears.

He begins a meticulous search of the room, peering underneath the bed, in the closet, out the window, and in every nook and cranny. After finding nothing, he finally takes a good look at his son, who is nearly four inches shorter and definitely of the female persuasion, and his jaw drops. There’s a look of shock and fear on his face, and Stiles feels like crying, because he really needs some support right now, and in the absence of Derek and Scott, his dad is his support.

“I’m Stiles, dad,” Stiles says, sniffing, and wiping at his eyes. “I was hit by some kind of spell, and I just really need you to not laugh at me right now.”

“But you’re a girl,” his father says, rather unhelpfully. “Can that really happen?”

His father’s inched away from him, as though fearful of getting too close, like it’s catching or something, and that makes Stiles want to cry even more, because he’s not some kind of freak. He’s just a boy trapped in a girl’s body. A body that he hopes is only temporary, because, when all's said and done, he really does like being a boy (that one time in seventh grade aside, when he and Scott had stayed up late speculating about what it would be like to be a girl -- both of them had gotten rather hard at the prospect of touching boobs and other intimate parts of a girl).

He’s still Stiles, though, and his father’s acting like he’s some kind of abomination. “I’m still me, dad,” he says, choking out the words through a sudden onslaught of tears.

His father stands stiffly and closes his eyes, his hands are fists at his side that open and close with each breath that he takes, as though he’s battling with himself in an effort to stay in Stiles’ room rather than flee.

Stiles has never felt so alone, so unloved, as he does in this moment, and he feels like running away from it all, because this is not how his father is supposed to react to this. His father’s supposed to be comforting him right now, promising him that everything’s going to work out okay, that Stiles will wake up in the morning and be back in the body that he’s used to. He’s supposed to hold him, and talk him through the panic attack that Stiles can feel building up inside of himself, not staving off his own knee-jerk reaction to supernatural repercussions for doing the right thing.

Up until now, his father’s always been Stiles’ rock. Always. He’s never faltered in his steps. He’s taken everything in stride, and with a calmness that Stiles has never really found within himself, though he’s attempted to emulate it. He’s had moments of it, but nothing like what he’s seen in his father, and this, watching his father struggle to control his gut reactions, is costing him, chipping away at his father’s pedestal, and making Stiles wonder if his father’s just been faking it all along.

Warm arms wrap around him, and Stiles’ head is pressed against a firm chest. It’s familiar in a way that nothing else is right now, and he wraps his arms around his father, clinging to the man as though he’s being saved from drowning, and in a way, he is. The man’s heartbeat is steady and strong, breaks through the panicky thoughts that are threatening to overwhelm Stiles and take away his breath.

He’s dizzy, and sick with fear, and, in an effort to keep the mother of all panic attacks at bay, he rubs the rough fabric of his father’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger like he used to when he was little, grounding himself; breathes in the sharp scent of his father’s cologne suffused with sweat from an honest day’s work; and hones in on the sound of his father’s heartbeat until his own matches that of his father’s in rhythm and tempo, his breathing soon follows suit as he listens to his father’s voiced commands, of, “Breathe, I’ve got you son, breathe. That’s it. I’m sorry, son. I’ve got you now. We’ll figure this out together.”

 

* * *

Though the transmogrification process is far less dramatic, and painful, for Derek, occurring while he’s sleeping, it’s no less surprising and unsettling according to the wolf who shows up in a panic an hour after Stiles’ father has finally gotten him calmed down enough to think straight.

Stiles can’t help, but smile at how fetching the uncomfortable the wolf looks sitting on the couch in Stiles’ living room, trying to decide whether or not he should cross his long, shapely legs.

Derek’s drop dead gorgeous as a woman. Long, dark hair flowing down to the middle of his back in wavy curls. Dark, smoldering eyes set in high, chiseled cheekbones. His chin’s less sharp, face more heart-shaped than it is when he’s a he, and not a she. And then there are his full, pouty lips that are just begging to be kissed, tinted a rosy red without the aid of lipstick, cheeks dusted a faint pink without the aid of rouge. He’s coltish. Long limbs and fingers.

The word, dainty, comes to mind, but the flash of red from Derek’s eyes as he spits out, in a soft, lilting voice, his acrimony toward the mage who’d done this to them, banishes that thought almost immediately, and Stiles shivers, knowing that his lover, in any form, has the potential to kill lying just beneath the surface of his currently porcelain white skin. It shouldn’t be the turn on that it is. Especially not when the both of them are stuck in bodies that don’t belong to them, but Stiles finds himself wondering if Derek’s skin feels as soft as it looks, if his hair is silky to the touch, how his ample breasts would react to the warm, wet press of Stiles’ tongue and the blunt scraping of teeth on teat.

They need to go to the mage, and get him to take the spell off of them, or wait for the spell to run its course. Stiles knows this, but, watching his boyfriend try to find a comfortable position on his couch that doesn’t show off too much cleavage through his overly tight tee-shirt, stirs up something inside of him, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry as he wonders what it would be like to fool around with Derek while they’re still both girls. If he can coax Derek into donning a form fitting black dress and black lace panties.

I’m a sick, sick boy, Stiles thinks, no, make that girl, as he pictures Derek naked, tries to keep his mind focused on the discussion that his father and Derek are having, and his body from responding to the images that his naughty mind is supplying him of Derek’s well-proportioned ass, the way that it might bounce, and redden if he were to spank it.

They’ve never done anything like that before, and it’s a more than a little disconcerting that Stiles is even entertaining the thought now, that the thoughts spring so easily to mind now that he’s a girl. Thoughts of Derek mewling beneath him, begging him with eyes lust-dark and pink lips slightly parted while Stiles straddles hips that are wider yet lean. Derek handcuffed to a headboard, Stiles’ face buried between ample breasts that smell like cinnamon and dirt. Derek’s melodic voice washing over him, urging him to go down on him, to ply fingers and tongue and lips to heretofore forbidden regions (regions that Stiles, outside of fantasy, has never gotten to touch, let alone fuck) while he writhes and bucks and calls out Stiles’ name over and over again.

And it’s like he’s thirteen again, lying side-by-side with Scott on his best friend’s bed make-believing kisses and the conquering of girls, the loss of virginity, and the perplexity of bra clasps, taking turns practicing with a couple of Melissa’s, and reveling in the rough-soft feel of lace against bare skin. It’s chafing, and when Stiles imagines the way it had looked on Scott when it had been his turn to practice taking it off without using his hands, it’s mind-blowing sexy, and Stiles disappears into the bathroom while Scott plays out his own fantasy in his bedroom, dirtying his mother’s bra, and stuffing it beneath his mattress afterwards. Stiles wonders if it’s still there, if the sullied bra he’d stolen from Melissa is still safely stowed away behind the loose board in the McCall’s bathroom wall.

“Stiles.” Derek sounds exasperated, and though his voice is stern, and holds a tiny hint of the anger that Stiles knows Derek’s feeling right now, the distinctive feminine lilt to it, along with the rasp of a not fully expressed growl is like a Siren’s call, and Stiles wants to drag his boyfriend up the stairs and explore their new bodies and fuck like the horny teenager he is.

“Have you heard anything that we’ve said?” Derek asks, voice accusing, slim, yet muscular arms wrapped severely across a slightly heaving chest, inadvertently pushing his breasts up, making them nearly pop through his black tee-shirt.

“Uh...” Stiles says, thoughts fleeing, mouth Sahara dry, palms and uncharted territory a rain forest in the middle of monsoon season.

His vision tunnels, and he’s wet, tingly and warm...down there...and he kind of wants his father to make himself scarce, right now, doesn’t want to discuss the dark mage, and the undoing of gender-altering spells just yet, because he’s feeling driven to fuck his wolf until they’re both incoherent piles of girly mush, breasts tangled with hair and the strong scent of musk hanging thick in the air between them.

Something of what he’s thinking must register on his face, because his father’s got a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look on his face, and Derek’s pretty eyes are growing dark, his lips parting to let escape a soft, needy moan. They almost don’t make it up to his room, and Stiles thinks, but isn’t sure, that he can hear his father’s voice trailing after them. Something about dodging a bullet, or about how he should’ve put a stop to him and Derek long ago, rather than letting them date in the hopes that Stiles wouldn’t do it anyway behind his back and become just another statistic, a runaway driven from the home because of an overly strict father.

None of it matters in any case, because Derek’s standing in the middle of his room, naked, body shaped like an honest to goodness hourglass. Stiles only has a moment to think that maybe there was something else to the spell that had been cast on them, something that not only turned them into girls, but also hiked lust up a notch, before he’s struggling to get out of his clothes, tee-shirt getting stuck on breasts that ache with the need to be touched and fondled, laved with a warm, wet tongue.

There’s a split-second of dizziness, an out of body experience in which he sees himself, naked and vulnerable, pale skin breaking out in goose bumps that have nothing to do with cold air, and everything to do with the beauty standing in front of him, mouth gaping in a silent ‘oh’ of shocked pleasure. He’s shorter and decidedly curvaceous as a girl.

Derek closes the gap between them in two long strides, his legs, even as a woman, no less long than they were when he’d been a man. His touch is like a conduit for electricity, sparking Stiles’ nerve endings to life wherever Derek touches him, warming his insides as though with fire.

“Touch me,” Stiles trills out, his girly voice low and flirty. He bats his eyelashes, and smiles in a way that he hopes is seductively.

Derek complies, fingers twining in long hair, rubbing at Stiles’ breasts, making overly sensitive nipples hard. Welcoming Stiles’ touch, he takes a step back, and they explore each other, first with their eyes, and then with fervent feather-gentle touches that give way to something harder and just shy of bruising.

Skin hot and throbbing with need, Stiles trembles beneath Derek’s heated touch, and smiles when Derek trembles too, long, dark hair fanning milky white shoulders. Derek’s hair feels like liquid between Stiles’ fingers, tastes like strawberries and cream when he kisses it.

Stiles has never touched a girl in any way that could ever be termed as intimate before, and right  now he’s more than a little intimidated. In all of his wet dreams, ending with him locking lips with one of the guys from the Lacrosse team or his goofy best friend, he’s never dreamed that touching a girl could be like this. And maybe, if the girl had been anyone else (his crush, Lydia), it wouldn’t have been so invigorating.

He knows that Derek has touched other girls, though, and suddenly he's self-conscious, feeling like he's an elephant with four left feet and a stubby, misshapen trunk. Derek's first girlfriend, Kate, had been as drop dead gorgeous as Derek is now. Stiles is downright mousy by comparison. At least he feels like he is.  
"Stiles, fuck, you're beautiful," Derek breathes the words out against Stiles' lips.

Long, slender fingers are splayed out across the soft expanse of Stiles' stomach where butterflies are dancing a frenetic tango. Derek's fingers drop further south, nestle themselves in the downy forest of coarse, tightly curled pubic hair, and Stiles’ breath comes to a stuttering halt for a second and he trembles like a leaf in the wind.

  
Even now, in their altered state, their bodies fit together, perfectly, as though they're the last two pieces belonging to one of those impossibly difficult puzzles to solve. Stiles fits snugly against Derek's female form, head tucked beneath Derek's chin, breasts squishing and molding themselves neatly together with Derek’s. It's comfortable. Safe. Sexy as fuck.

  
Derek's hand strays down to Stiles' ass, and Stiles draws in a sharp breath when Derek cups and squeezes, starts to massage the ample flesh and stake a claim on it.

  
Stiles' hands move to from Derek's slender shoulders, to Derek's hips, down to the two round, fleshy mounds of ass, eliciting a heady gasp.

  
_Free Reader Tip #16: Wolves are highly sensitive to touch. If you want your wolf to be silly putty in your hands, then look no further than ass, lips, the muscular planes of abdomen, which, no matter what form they take, male or female, will be ripped and tight as a six pack, because wolves get a good workout every single day. Hopefully in your bed, as well as by running through forests._

  
They stumble-walk their way to the bed, Derek landing on top of Stiles, and staring down, heatedly, into dark pools of lust-filled eyes that are rimmed with green the color of a storm-tossed sea.

  
Even as a female, I bottom, Stiles thinks wryly as Derek adjusts his slight weight, pinning Stiles to the bed beneath a pair of thick, vivacious thighs.

The absence of a cock, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach is not lost on Stiles, nor is the decidedly wet heat gathering between his legs. He’s aching there. It’s not the same sensation of a cock hardening, but the reaction is the same. He wants to rock up against Derek, and create friction between them. He’s panting and moaning, and he thinks that he can feel the wet heat emanating from between Derek's parted legs as the wolf lowers his body onto Stiles', starts licking a path from left nipple to belly button, making Stiles squirm and gasp with need.

“Derek,” Stiles moans, unable to breathe deeply, or think coherently as the wolf dips his dark head, hair falling across Stiles’ stomach, making it clench and twist with arousal as he pets absentmindedly at the wolf’s hair.

Stiles opens his legs wide, lets bony knees fall to the side, and pushes down at the feel of a tongue, hard and wet, tap, tap, tapping at what must be his clitorus. It feels fucking fantastic, and as Derek continues to fuck him with his tongue, Stiles forgets what it means to breathe, to see, to do anything other than beg for, “More, more, more. Uhnnnnnnnnnn, Derek, Derek, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” back arching up off the bed, fingers twined in hair that’s soft as silk as Stiles experiences an orgasm unlike any that he’s experienced as a boy.

After Stiles comes, Derek laps up the aftermath, and Stiles can feel another orgasm building up inside, coiling in the pit of his fluttering stomach when Derek’s nose presses into his pubic hairs, the wolf’s tongue sliding in and out of the slick opening in a steady pumping rhythm that Stiles doesn’t know if he can replicate when it’s his turn to taste, suck, and fuck the wolf with  tongue.

The second orgasm flows into a third, and Stiles swears that fireworks are going off somewhere nearby, because, not only can he see them, but he can feel and hear them going off. Toes curling into the bedspread, fingernails digging half moons into tender flesh, Stiles screams out a breathy series of praises bearing Derek’s name and prowess in bed.

_Free Reader Tip #17: Never hesitate to praise your wolf’s performance in bed. It’s like an aphrodisiac, or something, for them. Need I say that it leads to many a hallelujah, the seeing of colorful stars, the sounds of happy grunting and panting, and multiple orgasms, for both of you?_

“Did you like that?” Derek asks, raising a flushed face creased with doubt and worry. “Was I any good?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, hair tumbling about shoulders slick with sweat, Stiles pulls Derek close, and reassures the silly wolf that, “Yes, it was good, and yeah, I liked it.”

Stiles pushes Derek back, delighting in the startled, “Oof,” that the action elicits, and the way that the wolf’s dark hair cascades down shoulders and back. Stiles settles between Derek’s open thighs, and lowers head and lips, questing fingers to the wolf’s hot, wet, throbbing pussy.

Stiles experiments with a little finger banging first, watches Derek’s pupils widen, the full, pouty lips tremble and bleed as the wolf bites down hard enough to tear through skin, and then pulls the lower lip in between pearly white teeth and suck at the blood there. Stiles, wanting to taste the blood -- fingers still banging out a quick tempo on either side of the wolf’s clitoris, working Derek into a frenzy of wordless sounds as Stiles simultaneously works the fingers of his other hand into Derek, searching for the wolf’s g-spot, knowing that it’s gotta be somewhere  -- surges upward and steals a kiss, sucking Derek’s lower lip into his mouth, and tasting the intoxicating mixture of copper, and, once again, strawberries.

Derek’s stomach ripples, and the wolf sighs out a breathy growl, coming, vagina walls tightening around Stiles’ fingers. Fingers clenching at the bedspread, toes digging into the mattress, head thrown back, Derek lets out a spine-tingling howl. The wolf’s dark hair hangs and sways like a curtain in the breeze, and Stiles is mesmerized, wants to make the wolf come a second time.

Stiles keeps his fingers inside of the wolf’s vaginal walls, pumps the tips of them against the fleshy g-spot, and, circles the nipple of Derek’s right breast with his tongue, playfully bites at the tender, sensitive flesh there, causing Derek to pant out a curse, and the wolf’s fingers to dig painfully into Stiles’ hips. There’ll be bruises, but Stiles doesn’t care about that. He cares only about making the wolf howl again, because Derek’s never done that before.

Stiles around the teeth marks he’s made on Derek’s breasts, moves onto its twin, and suckles at the teat, making it hard and, making Derek cry out, voice hoarse and husky, “Stiles, oh, fuck, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.” This time, when Derek comes, there is no howl. The wolf growls out what sounds like a steady purr, head tossed back, body quaking.

Stiles pulls out fingers slick with Derek’s essence, and Derek pushes forward, takes Stiles’ fingers into  his mouth and sucks them clean, hooks a hand behind Stiles’ neck and pulls him close for a kiss that leaves Stiles’ head whirling, and his insides feeling like jell-o.

Stiles, wanting to give as good as he got, starts kissing his way toward Derek’s center, enjoying the way that the wolf’s muscles shudder beneath his lips, his tongue, his teeth, the way that the curly pubic hairs tickle his nose when he closes in on his goal, and the way the wolf pets him, gently urging Stiles to, “Fuck me, Stiles,” in a breathy, feminine drawl.

Derek tastes a little different as a female. The come is far less musky, less potent, and a little wetter than Stiles is used to. He likes it, relishes the mewling sounds that his tongue is rending from Derek, who’s propped up on elbows, feet resting on either side of Stiles, dark eyes lined with an electric blue, watching Stiles as his tongue coaxes a third orgasm from the wolf.

Spent, they both crawl beneath the covers, Stiles’ hair spread out across Derek’s breasts, Derek’s slender arms wound around Stiles’ chest.

“That was --” Stiles starts to say something, but sleep quickly pulls him under, as though he’s been drugged, and, later, he’ll realize that it was just part of the mage’s spell, that the sleep he and Derek are pulled down into is one which had been premeditated. One which was meant to keep them under for good. But the mage hadn’t counted on Derek and Stiles having a magic all their own. Love.

When they wake the next morning, Stiles finds that he’s spooned up behind Derek, whose arms are wrapped possessively around him, Stiles is almost disappointed to see that the spell’s been broken, that they’ve both reverted to their distinctly male forms, Derek’s semi-hard cock pressing into the small of his back, the wolf’s warm breath tickling the back of his neck, no long, brunette locks to block it.

 


	15. School Spirit Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His first mistake was allowing Lydia to dress him up for Spirit Week. His second was underestimating how Derek would react to the barrier of skin tight clothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In a different clothing style (Visual Kei, gyaru, lolita, etc.)
> 
> Hope you like it. I understand that not many enjoyed the genderswap chapter (sorry about that).

Stiles is not what anyone would ever call a clotheshorse. As long as he has a well worn tee-shirt (preferably clean, but not a requisite), a comfortable pair of jeans (again with the cleanness) and a decent pair of shoes (holes okay) to wear, he’s cool. 

Which doesn’t explain the getup that he’s currently dressed in, courtesy of Lydia. He thinks it’s a look she called visual key or kei or gay or something with the word visual at the start of it. 

He looks...in a word...androgynous. 

In another word, ridiculous. He can feel the eyes of his fellow students on him.

The makeup itches, but Lydia refuses to let him scratch at it, or better yet, wash it off, and Stiles thinks that this might’ve been the worst thing he’s done in a long time. How on earth he let his former crush talk him into this, he doesn’t know. 

Sure, it’s spirit week at school and all, but this is a little too elaborate for the theme: In a different clothing style. Whatever  that means. 

Though, Lydia is actually pretty good with the elaborate, and some of the gawkers are actually smiling at him, and giving him a thumbs’ up, and at the end of the day, he ends up winning a costume contest that he hadn’t even known about -- a fifty dollar gift card to a restaurant that he doubts Derek will want to take him to. Maybe he’ll invite Lydia, or just give her the card, because the whole thing had been her idea, and Stiles doesn’t even know how he’s going to get out of the too-tight clothes (he likes his much, much looser) and take off the makeup, which feels like it’s starting to become a part of his skin.

“Don’t,” Stiles says, holding up a hand to forestall anything negative that his boyfriend might have to say when Derek, waiting for him after school, opens his mouth. “Just take me home, now.”

To his credit, Derek says nothing, just makes sidelong glances at Stiles out of the corner of his eye throughout the, thankfully short, drive home. Stiles slams out of the car, and storms up the front steps, nearly tripping over them, and wrenches the front door open. 

He knows what Derek’s thinking, what the wolf is going to say when he eventually opens his mouth, because, even though Stiles has the reputation for running off at the mouth, Derek, when he  does  talk chooses his words carefully, but that doesn’t mean that they hurt any less for all the thinking and brooding that Derek does ahead of time. 

And the looks he’s been giving Stiles in the car, well, Stiles is just over that right now, and the makeup is crawling its way beneath his skin, the clothing is riding up the crack in his ass, and he really wants to rewind the day and start over. Say, no, to Lydia. Pretend like none of this ever happened.

What happens next, though, is a complete surprise, and, while it isn’t wholly unpleasant, the kiss, the ass-groping, the needy moan against his ear, leave him reeling and gasping for air.

“Wanna go on a date?” Stiles blurts out, once he’s caught his breath. He’s got the gift card pinched between two fingers, trying to prise it out of his pocket.

Derek’s got a feral look on his face, and the wolf’s dark eyes spark red. He shakes his head, points to the stairs, and without having to be told twice, Stiles takes the stairs two at a time. 

Stiles doesn’t have to figure out how to remove the clothing or the makeup after all, because, turns out, that Derek’s pretty damn good at that.

_Free Reader Tip #18: If you want to keep your wolf happy, clothing is optional. I’ve found that wolves prefer their mates clothing-free, especially if that clothing is elaborate, accompanied by copious amounts of makeup, making it difficult for the wolf to get at the tootsie roll center of the tootsie pop -- namely, you. When it comes to dating a wolf, clothing falls into the less is more category._

 


	16. Sleeping Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy sharing a bed, not so easy sharing a bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: During their morning rituals

The first time that Derek slept over (completely by accident, and we did nothing even remotely sex-like, Stiles promised his dad), they wound up, quite literally, bouncing off of each other in the hallway, Stiles (eyes closed, because it was too early to open them just yet) heading toward the bathroom that Derek was exiting. It had not been a good start to the day.

The second time that Derek slept over (again, no sex, not even naughty touching as far as the Sheriff was concerned), things went a little less smoothly. The water turned scalding hot, then ice cold when Derek flushed the toilet. No apologies were said, and Stiles left for school without saying goodbye, or acting as buffer between his father and boyfriend. Needless to say, that day had been shot to hell, almost literally as Stiles found out much, much later.

The third time that Derek slept over (Who do you think you’re fooling Stiles? Because it ain’t me, the Sheriff knew what was what, and, while he grumbled about it, he didn’t shove the shotgun in Derek’s face or threaten to shove it up his ass, so Stiles counted that as a win), there was breakfast waiting for him on the bedside table, and a wolf sitting up beside him in bed, a toothy, kind of creepy, grin on his face, and Stiles felt a little unsettled for the rest of the day. It hadn’t been unpleasant, but it had left him wondering if Derek had spit in his eggs, which had tasted a little off.

The fourth time that Derek slept over (the Sheriff decided to give them a less than subtle reminder of their age difference, I’m doing a bed check at midnight, because you need your sleep, Stiles, you’ve got school in the morning) they start to establish a bit of a routine. Derek got up first to pee and shave, he’d shower at home, later, and woke Stiles with a kiss, no creepy breakfast in bed, boyfriend staring at him with a wolfish grin. There were no mishaps, and that turned out to be a very good day.

The fifth time that Derek slept over (the sheriff threw his hands up, and muttered something beneath his breath that Stiles couldn’t make out), things went surprisingly well. They even passed each other in the hallway, no bouncing off of hard chests, and walls, and, when Stiles had finished showering, there was breakfast waiting for him, down in the kitchen, where breakfast should be. That day had been pretty damn good.

The sixth time Derek sleeps over (the sheriff shares a look with Derek that Stiles cannot decipher), they’ve got everything well in hand, and if Derek joins him in the shower, the sheriff never finds out about it. That day is the best day yet, and it has nothing to do with the circumstances that Stiles finds himself in, which, by ordinary people’s standards are pretty awful, and everything to do with soapy cocks and slippery bodies and the tuneless song that Stiles can’t get out of his head.

_Free Reader Tip #19: Wolves are surprisingly cheerful in the morning. Annoyingly so. And they’re playful, unrepentant asses. Do not trust them not to do something to your food, or your shampoo while you’re still half asleep. Beware. Avoid your wolf first thing in the morning, unless, of course there is sex involved. Sex can be a great way to wake up._

 


	17. Little Spoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's okay to be the little spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Spooning

“I could get used to this,” Stiles speaks his thoughts aloud, tongue thick and uncoordinated this early in the morning, making his words sound far more garbled than they should. He can still taste Derek in his mouth, though it’s mixed with the usual nasty morning taste that settles on his tongue sometime during the night -- something that’s a cross between ass and a familiar tangy brine.

Derek’s pressed up behind him, spooning him from behind. He’s got one arm tossed over Stiles’ chest in a manner which can only be described as possessive, and a knee nestled between Stile’s thighs, nudging the underside of his balls in a way that is oddly comfortable.

_ Free Reader Tip #20: Don’t let them fool you, wolves are big cuddly teddy bears, er, teddy wolves, er wolfy bears...wolfy wolves? Also, it’s okay to be the ‘little spoon’, especially when the ‘big spoon’ is a big, bad, sexy wolf (and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise). _


	18. Bowling Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott confronts Stiles about neglecting his friends in favor of spending time with Derek. They come up with a compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doing something together (this can be anything from watching TV to having sex)

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, frowning at the look that Scott’s giving him -- both eyebrows raised to his hairline, and his eyes open wide in incredulity. “Derek and I do things together.  _ Lots  _ of things. Things that  _ have _ things. Things that --”

“Aren’t sex?” Scott asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong or anything. I’m not saying have sex less, because, well...sex.” Scott sighs and tugs an unruly hair into place, frowning when it springs back out of place.

“Or, well, maybe I am.” Scott shrugs, and then scowls at his reflection, and slaps Stiles’ hand away when he attempts to help with the wayward hair. 

“I guess what I’m mostly saying is that you and Derek should do  _ other _ things together. You know, things that can be done in public, and maybe with friends, you know, in a non-orgy way,” Scott finishes with a sigh, blushing as he catches Stiles’ eyes in the mirror for a brief second before looking away and fiddling, once more, with his hair. 

“I think it’s a lost cause, buddy,” Stiles says, gesturing at the uncooperative hair so that Scott won’t mistake his meaning, though, really, maybe the whole doing things with Derek that aren’t sex, or that don’t end up in sex, is a lost cause too, because, well...sex. And sex with his wolf is good. Damn good. And he’s a teenager with all of those pesky hormones, and the libido of a teenager, and Derek’s libido is nothing to sniff at either. It’s pretty healthy and the sex is good, and...

“Bowling,” Scott blurts out, voice cracking on the word, hand thumping on the dresser, making his mirror jiggle. 

“Bowling?” Stiles tries to picture it. Derek in bowling shoes, graceful as ever, while Stiles slip-slides across the slick floor, and lands on his ass. He rubs at his tailbone in sympathy with what could very well be his future self if Scott’s dreamy look is anything to go by.

Scott nods. “Yeah, bowling. We could form a team. Me, you, Lydia, Kaitlyn and Danny against Derek, Isaac, Peter, Jackson, and --”

“Another guy who could kick our bowling asses?” Stiles frowns, and shakes his head at the lineup that Scott’s putting together in his head. “We’ll be creamed, Scott.”

“I think we could take them,” Scott says, his voice filled with an almost childlike enthusiasm that Stiles hasn’t heard from his best friend in a while. “It’s not like any of us are bowling champions, Stiles. Ooh, maybe we could invite your dad and my mom.”

“Well, bowling would be decidedly orgy-less,” Stiles says, teasing and laughing at the look that Scott gives him when he turns around and launches himself at Stiles, tackling him and wrestling the way that they used to, before wolves and sex and the supernatural-embroiled mess that their lives have become.

_ Free Reader Tip #21: Sex is good, but, if you have friends and want to keep them, find something that you and your wolf can do, together, with your friends, that doesn’t involve sex (unless you have friends who don’t mind sexual orgies -- just kidding). Hint: Bowling shoes are not sexy, even when worn by an otherwise sexy wolf who can pull off just about anything else (Mr. Rogers’ sweater, accompanied by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and chuck taylors...but I digress). Besides, bowling is good, clean fun, and sometimes that can be better than sex (heavy emphasis on the sometimes).  _


End file.
